


The one with the pancakes

by audreyscout (orphan_account)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/audreyscout





	The one with the pancakes

The first time Courfeyrac realizes he is in love with Jehan, he wakes up on the poet’s couch to the sound of rain and to the sight of him sitting cross-legged on the ledge of the bay window in the living room of his second floor apartment. There is a book in his lap, the title in Italian, but Jehan’s gaze is directed down to the street, where people are hurrying about, umbrellas in hand. Courfeyrac stares at Jehan’s figure, his back straight; his beautiful hair, golden-red in color and free of flowers for once, tied back in a loose braid; his soft hands gently holding the book in place. Jehan is wearing a silky white button up shirt, the material delicate and soft, and dark, floral-print jeans. There is a look of concentration on his face, his brow furrowed, and Courfeyrac wonders what he’s thinking about. He can almost make out the handful of freckles that mark his nose.  
  
Courfeyrac’s heart flutters and there’s a feeling of warmth in his chest that he’s never felt before. He has always adored Jehan, intrigued by his gentle nature and his ability to dream, those beautiful eyes that are observant and always filled with wonder as they take in the world, afraid of nothing but so very kind; he feels something more now, something that he’s never noticed. Jehan turns and looks at Courfeyrac, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips when their eyes meet; Courfeyrac inhales sharply and returns the smile.  
  
“Good morning,” Jehan says, his voice soft, like music to Courfeyrac’s ears. He sits up and stretches his arms overhead. He’s still wearing the jeans and plaid shirt from the day before. He had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through the movie they watched the previous night.  
  
“’Morning,” he grins, before standing up and sitting himself down in the space directly in front of Jehan moving a vase filled with daisies and a stack of sheet music to the side to make room for himself as he leans against the window, “What are you staring at?” He follows Jehan’s gaze down to the street, but it’s empty now, most people having taken cover from the rain.  
  
“Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking,” he looks up to meet Courfeyrac’s eye only to turn away quickly and resume his concentrated stare.  
  
“About what?” he asks, his voice filled with a hint of tenderness that wasn’t there before.  
  
Jehan doesn’t respond right away, but bites at his lower lip. Courfeyrac begins to think that either he didn’t hear him, or he doesn’t want to talk about it. He changes the subject.  
  
“What are you reading?”  
  
“It’s a book of Italian love poems,” Jehan replies, turning away from the window.  
  
“Read one to me,” it’s more of a demand than a question, and Courfeyrac leans his head back against the window, his eyes never once leaving Jehan. Jehan’s face is a few shades redder than it had been before, and Courfeyrac has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.  
  
Jehan flips through the pages, carefully considering each poem before deciding on one. He begins speaking perfect Italian. Courfeyrac doesn’t understand a word, but it’s still the most beautiful thing he has ever heard. The poem ends, but Jehan continues to stare at the page. Finally, he looks up.  
  
“That was beautiful,” Courfeyrac says. Jehan looks down at his lap.  
  
“I didn’t know you could speak Italian,” Jehan teases, glancing up at Courfeyrac from under long, thick eyelashes.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.” A strand of hair had come loose from the braid, and Courfeyrac reaches out without thinking to tuck it behind his ear. His hand moves slowly and gently, the backs of his fingers brush against Jehan’s cheekbone, and he can feel the heat coming off his face, which grows steadily redder. Jehan’s lips are parted, and Courfeyrac notices that his breathing has become shallower.  
  
Jehan’s eyes flit down to Courfeyrac’s lips, only for an instant, but that’s all it takes for Courfeyrac to lean in, hand still resting on Jehan’s cheek. He pauses when their lips are only a few inches apart, foreheads almost touching. He clears is throat.  
  
“Can I?” He asks quietly, eyes moving from Jehan’s lips to his eyes. Jehan responds by closing the distance between them, lightly pressing his lips against Courfeyrac’s. His other hand moves to the back of Jehan’s neck, burying it in his hair and taking in the softness that almost overwhelms him. Jehan grabs the front of Courfeyrac’s shirt, holding him closer and pressing into him more firmly. Courfeyrac loses track of time; they could stay like this for hours, days even, and it would not be long enough.  
  
Finally Jehan pulls back, smiling and blushing, and then he turns his body so he’s no longer sitting cross-legged. Their thighs are touching now, and Jehan rests his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, burying his face into the larger man’s neck. Courfeyrac places his arms around Jehan, pulling him closer; he responds by wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist.  
  
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Jehan sighs, his words muffled as his face is still pressed into Courfeyrac.  
  
“So have I,” Courfeyrac kisses the tops of Jehan’s head, breathing in a sweet smell that he does not have a name for. He reaches out with one arm, plucks a daisy from the vase, and tucks it behind Jehan’s ear. The poet kisses his neck before looking up at him, his perfect lips shaped into a smile. They stay like that a while longer, until Courfeyrac’s stomach lets out a low grumble. Jehan laughs.  
  
“Should we make pancakes?” the poet asks, wriggling loose from Courfeyrac’s arms and making his way to the kitchen before he can respond. Courfeyrac follows him and they get to work, Jehan pulling various ingredients out of the cupboard, while Courfeyrac fills the kettle with water and pulls two mugs out of the dishwasher. Jehan playfully flicks flour into Courfeyrac’s face, who sneezes before pushing the smaller man against the counter, kissing his neck. Jehan reaches up and tangles his fingers in Courfeyrac’s hair, a giggle leaving his lips. Courfeyrac pulls back and kisses the tip of Jehan’s nose before turning back to the pancake batter.  
  
———-  
  
Courfeyrac leaves after breakfast. Jehan stands on tiptoe, arms wrapped around Courfeyrac’s neck as they kiss each other goodbye.  
  
“Will you come back tonight?” Jehan asks, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  
  
“Of course I will,” Courfeyrac leans forward to kiss Jehan’s forehead before he goes. He has to meet with Enjolras to discuss his role in an upcoming event, and he’s already running late. As much as he would love to spend the day with Jehan, he does not want to run the risk of angering Enjolras.  
  
The cold nips at his fingertips, and he places his hands in his pockets. His left hand brushes up against something, and he pulls out a piece of carefully folded paper. He unfolds it and a huge smile spreads across his face. It’s a poem, and Courfeyrac recognizes Jehan’s elegant handwriting. He reads it over once more before putting it back into his pocket, careful not to damage it. His heart jumps as he thinks about the events of that morning, and his step is lighter than it has been in months. Not even Enjolras’ steely gaze can ruin his day.


End file.
